Year of Our Lord
by AliceEm in Potterland
Summary: A dystopian, AU fic inspired loosely by the Handmaid's Tale. Harry died. Voldemort won. Society was restructured, and our survivors must figure out their new roles within it. Assigned spouses, mandated pregnancies, secrets, and the shadowy whisper of resistance color this new wizarding society. Will everyone make it out alive?
1. January

Year of Our Lord  
Chapter One  
January

MISTRESS LAVENDER MACMILLAN:

23/1/2003

My darlings,

It is always strange to recall my old life, the way things used to be. I almost never think about the past anymore, but every now and again, something happens that puts my life into perspective. Just when I think we've finally settled down, finally become comfortable with the way things are, I catch myself saying or doing something I never thought I would say or do. Then, it's like waking up from a dream. I feel I have to pinch my arm to remind myself that this is truly my life now.

This morning, Witch Bulstrode and I were in Diagon Alley, shopping for some more rat spleen, when we ran into Wizard Finnigan. It had been a few weeks since I'd last seen him, so we said our hellos and spent a moment catching up. I asked him how his masters were doing, and he said they were quite well. He was at the shop to pick up some potions ingredients for Master Longbottom, in fact. Wizard Finnigan was wearing the biggest smile I had seen on anyone since the Battle. I asked him what made him so happy, and he told me he was finally to be married. He had been working hard for the past several years to earn a wife, made his request the month before, and the Dark Lord had granted his wish. I congratulated him and asked who she was, and when they were to be wed.

"This evening," he said. "They've given me Witch Patil." He must have read the question on my face, because before I could ask, he clarified that it was Parvati, not Padma, whom he was to marry. (Like you, Parvati and Padma are twins.) The moment the name fell from his lips I felt like I was spiraling out of a hazy dream.

What was happening? What was this life? I was talking to my old school friend as though he was a just friendly shop boy. I was accompanied by an old bully, a bully who now worked for me, and I'd just found out my best friend was being given away into marriage as though she was a work bonus. Seamus. Millicent Bulstrode. Parvati, my best mate. All on the social ladder one rung beneath me – half-bloods. Not even given the respect of their first names, not by us purebloods anyway. I hardly heard as Seamus expressed his relief at being given a wife he knew so well, hardly registered the laughable validity of his concern.

Then Seamus said, "Well, I'd best be getting back, Mistress Macmillan," and that was that. With his words, I was dubbed Mistress Macmillan again; pureblood wife to a pureblood wizard, mother of two beautiful pureblood children, happily maintaining our station in a pureblood society that treats our friends as inferiors and servants.

Children, you know your father and I love each other very much, but this wasn't always the case. We came to love each other over many years. It was hard work. At first, I was resentful of the way we had been thrown together. It may seem the norm to you that people don't choose their own spouses, but that didn't used to be the way things were done. My parents chose each other, just as your father's parents chose each other. Ernie and I did not get to choose. We were chosen for each other by the Dark Lord – a fact which we both detested. We had hardly known each other at school; to be told that we were now to be married, to have children together, to propagate a pureblood wizarding society, seemed absurd. One random, uncalculated point of the Dark Lord's finger sealed my fate forever.

Over time, we came to find solace in each other's presence. Wizard Finnigan was right; being assigned a spouse that you knew was a comfort. We had been in different houses at Hogwarts – back when there were houses – but we were from the same year, so we'd had classes together often. Ernie had always struck me as pompous and a bit ridiculous, but I soon learned he was fiercely intelligent and exceedingly kind. We bonded over our acceptance of our new life, over our shared desire to keep our heads down and make the best of things. He has been my closest ally, dearest friend, and kindest companion over the last five years. I know you two are young now, but someday, I hope you are given partners whose ambitions will so equally align with your own.

I will write another letter next month to add to your memory box for your seventeenth birthdays. I must report that this month, you both showed magical abilities for the first time. Your father and I wept with the most profound relief. Sierra, you Accio'd Samuel's toy pony, and Samuel, you levitated the pony over your sister's head and conked her with it. Not the nicest use of magic I've ever seen, I'll admit, but it was magic all the same. This means in two years, you'll be off to Hogwarts. I can't believe in two years, you'll be seven years old and already leaving home. When your father and I were young, magical children didn't go to Hogwarts until they were eleven or twelve. Can you imagine?

Goodnight for now, my loves.

Your loving mother

* * *

FILTH:

 _January 13, 2003_

 _Today, I discovered why Percy refuses to make attempts at procreation with his wife._

 _When the Master and Mistress asked me to take his place as the biological father of the Mistress's children, I was at first shocked. After all, law dictates that pureblood couples should produce pureblood children unless special dispensation has been afforded for infertile cases. I assumed, in their asking, that Percy was one such case._

 _My shock arose less from this supposition than from surprise that they would risk being found to have a less-than-pure child. After all, half-blood donors are the lawful solution to this problem. As a Mudblood – we are no longer allowed to be called Muggleborn – I was stripped of my name (Justin), and the Death Eaters gave me a new name (Filth.) They decreed that I would be branded and sterilized. The branding, they did themselves. The sterilization, they left to my new Master. Of course Master Weasley, or Percy as I shall hereafter call him, is a kind and fair man. He never followed through with this order. I didn't think there was a particular reason for this negligence beyond his generosity._

 _So when Percy and Luna asked me to father their children, I wondered that they didn't just ask for a half-blood to be assigned to help. It was the safer option; if anyone were to find out, not only would their child or children be killed for dirtying the bloodline, the Weasley's would likely be punished severely for disobeying the law. I would certainly be put down. Percy assured me this was unlikely to happen; as a Mudblood, no one would assume me capable of fathering children anymore. Out of gratitude for the kindness they've always shown me, I agreed to their request. It was . . . an awkward affair, but the first time took, and nine months later Evander was born. Two years later, Venetia. I have never seen these children as my own; they have been, and always will be, the son and daughter of Percy, bearing the Weasley name and the protection thereof. The same is true of the third, due in three and a half months._

 _Today, Luna let it slip that whether Percy was infertile was, in fact, unknown. They had never tried; they had never slept together. I confess, I was not as shocked as she perhaps expected. I had long since formed a suspicion about Percy that this revelation seemed to confirm. Rather than shock, I instead felt annoyance. After all, it hadn't stopped me from doing my duty and creating heirs for him, but I suppose that is the way of the world now. Mudbloods must make the sacrifices their Masters cannot, or will not, make._

 _Luna has always been understanding, of course, and never attempted to make our . . . relations . . . out to be anything but a biological act._

 _I struggle with whether I should tell Percy that I, too, share his inclinations, but I don't want to get his hopes up._

* * *

MASTER RONALD WEASLEY:

Memory deposit. January. 2003.

The day after the Battle. I'm walking through a massive set of elaborately carved wooden doors. The carvings are of peacocks, I think, or maybe some kind of turkey. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. Lavender is crying silently beside me. All of us have our hands tied behind our backs. They're making us carry our wands in our mouths – it keeps us all from talking to one another and we can't reach them with our hands tied. There are about a dozen of us.

I'm trying not to think of Harry, but I can't get the image of his limp body spilling from Hagrid's arms out of my head. Voldemort cut off Harry's head right in front of us, to show us just how dead he was. How badly we had lost.

We're walking into a huge, bright room with white molding and mint green walls. It's paper, not paint; I can tell by the pattern. There is a fire going in a huge fireplace on the far wall. Its mantel must be at my shoulder height, so it's tall. The floors are wood, but they've been painted white, and there's a thick rug that covers most of the room. A crowd stands against each wall, all of them either jeering or glaring menacingly at us. I can't see their faces in focus; I just feel their contempt, hear it in their hisses and growls, like a pack of hyenas dying to tear us apart.

As the last of our group gather up, the doors close with a final bang. There is no escaping. Whatever happens in this room, it can't be undone. We can't go back.

Voldemort gets up to speak, and everyone stops talking. Not us, of course. All of us have been silent since yesterday. We couldn't talk, even if we didn't have our wands between our teeth. "The brave, fierce warriors of Hogwarts," he says with a sneer. Bravery sounds ridiculous now. Silly. "What are we to do with you?" The room erupts into suggestions: kill us, torture us, make us pay. Voldemort holds up a white, bony hand and everyone shuts up again.

"So much pure blood stands before me, so much potential." He pauses. "This is the dawn of a new Wizarding society, a better one than has ever yet existed. One that recognizes the talent, strength, and dignity that resides in the pure, untainted blood of our oldest families. What shall I do with you, those of you who defied me, but yet possess pure blood?" The crowd offers their opinions, and Voldemort holds up a silencing hand again. "Never fear – those of you with pure blood . . . are free to go." The crowd breaks into hushed, frantic whispers and we look at each other, bewildered. This must be a trick. Voldemort smiles, if it can be called that, and says, "With stipulations, of course. You will be marked, lest you or anyone else forget how you defied your Lord. You will be given a pureblood spouse and be required to produce pureblood children, as a token of your cooperation. But, I am remiss. Before we discuss this further, we must remove those that are not needed."

My heart begins to pound in my chest; immediately, instinctively, my eyes latch onto Hermione. She stares wildly at the man coming toward her, grabbing her shoulders, dragging her out of the room. They take Justin, Dean, and Dennis Creevey. The muggleborns. Those that are not needed.

I want to fight, to go after her, but my feet are rooted to the spot. As soon as the doors close and the hall swallows them, Voldemort continues. "There. Much better. The very air seems cleaner, does it not? As I was saying. You will be branded, given spouses, and required to further the purity of our race with pureblood children. You will be monitored to ensure you are following our new rules. Beyond these small parameters, you're all free to do as you like. See, purity of blood has its advantages. For the half-bloods among you, your lot is not quite as . . . easy as the others', I'm afraid, but don't worry. You will find new jobs await you in our society. You will not want for food or shelter; you will be taken care of. When the time comes, and you've proven your worth, you may request to be given spouses. Though, of course, you will not be permitted to produce any children – we wouldn't want to take any steps backward, would we?"

The room is spinning as he speaks. My hands are clammy, my face sweating as though we were still standing beneath the burning ruins of the Great Hall.

"Now, spouses. Well, before we get to that, I must ask the half-bloods to leave us – this part is not intended for you." Greedy, claw-like hands grab Seamus, Hannah, Susan. One by one, our group continues to grow smaller. "First, I would like to reward one amongst us, a young Death Eater who proved his loyalty and dedication to me by ridding us of our most difficult enemy. Draco Malfoy, who killed Albus Dumbledore in my name, will be allowed to choose his own wife."

Draco steps through the crowd; the assembled Death Eaters clap and cheer. The sound all starts to drown together, the clapping and screaming and praises. He says . . . something, and Pansy Parkinson moves to his side. They disappear into the crowd.

Voldemort starts speaking again. He is calling names. I don't hear him, not really, until he calls Ginny's name. Then, "to Blaise Zabini." I want to vomit, but my wand is still between my teeth. It's hard to breathe. George, also, to a Slytherin – Astoria Greengrass. I stop listening, I can't listen to this, this can't be happening.

"Ronald Weasley – " Suddenly, for a bewildering second, I think I'm about to step up to the Sorting Hat, get placed in Gryffindor, all of this a terrible, anxious dream. "You are to marry Hestia Carrow." Another Slytherin, I know that, but I can't place her. Then it comes to me: a twin, short, pretty, nasty, friend of Pansy. I don't remember the rest.


	2. February

Year of Our Lord  
Chapter Two  
February

MISTRESS GINEVRA ZABINI:

Dear Angelina,

How have you been? Please tell me things have improved over there. Do I need to come straighten things out with your monster of a husband? Because I will, you know I will. Just say the word.

Speaking of husbands, you asked in your last letter how things were with mine. I have to say, I'm not entirely sure. At times, I feel like I could kill him in his sleep. You know what he's like – he says the most awful things about those of Muggle heritage. He's so pompous and rigid. He's never any fun; he doesn't ever do nice things for me. He's horrid to Dean – he insists we call him "Swill." I know I have no right to complain considering who you're married to, but Blaise just makes it so hard to be happy.

And then, out of the blue, he'll do something so unlike himself that I wonder if I even really know him. The other day I walked into the nursery and he was rocking Lucan in the chair, singing to him. I've never heard Blaise sing, but his voice is so lovely. Deep and rich, like earth. I watched them for a moment before he realized I was there, and he looked up and smiled. I so rarely see him smile. In the softest voice I've ever heard from him, he said, "Ginny – thank you for such a perfect son." I was sure someone had taken Polyjuice Potion to look like my husband. He is not the kind of man I'd describe as "tender." He doesn't say things like "thank you for such a perfect son." He put the baby down, then kissed me. Softly, sweetly. I was so stunned, I just went along with it. Then he wrapped his arms around my waist and whispered, "let's make another."

He looked so . . . normal, so unlike his haughty and formal self. He was unusually relaxed, almost familiar. He actually tucked hair behind my ear and kissed my freckles, murmuring about how he loves them. I hate to admit it, but it was so nice to have such affection that I immediately gave in. I felt guilty afterward, like I'd betrayed some part of myself for actually feeling a connection to Blaise for once. Which is absurd, I know, since he is my legally wedded husband until death do us part and all that, but still.

Lucan is doing well – he's just begun walking. We still have to hold him by the hands, but he loves being up and about. I can't believe he's growing so fast! How are yours? How is Susan? Please tell me everything is alright. I hope to see you soon, if ever Gregory will let you leave the house. We must sneak you out somehow.

Your friend,  
Ginny

WITCH ABBOTT:

Dear Diary,

This evening, Pansy let me have a butterbeer to celebrate a successful first trimester. She acted as though she'd just given me a thousand galleons, and she forced me to thank her for it. I wanted to slap her. Still, I must try to make myself grateful. After all, I am lucky – I would rather have a baby for the Malfoys than any other family. Other women are angry they can't have children, and they take it out on their surrogates, slapping them around or worse. Pansy doesn't mind; she told me she was happy she was barren, because having a baby would ruin her figure. What an awful thing to say to a pregnant woman! And my first time, too! Even with Pansy's insensitivity, it's still an improvement from running the Lestrange's household. Bellatrix was a lunatic; Rodolphus a brute. But you've heard all about that.

The butterbeer was, at least, a change from the usual monotony here. Everything is so quiet; the house is so big, one hardly ever hears or sees another person. It has given me plenty of time to read, but one can only read for so many hours in a day. I suppose if boredom is my only complaint, I'm better off than most people. Poor Hermione. My heart breaks whenever I see her. I do my best to extend kindness when I can, and I hate having to call her "Slop" in front of the Malfoys. I accidentally called her Hermione in front of them once, but luckily Pansy was laughing at just that moment and didn't catch it. Whenever we're alone – and we were quite a bit when my morning sickness required frequent cleaning up – she doesn't talk much. She won't even look at me, but I always notice a fresh bruise or burn on her. They're never especially bad, but they're there. Poor, poor Hermione.

I think I'm finally ready to talk about the night I conceived. I couldn't record my feelings before because, well, I didn't really know how I felt about it. First, I should remind you what I felt before the deed. Frankly, I was terrified. Draco is one of the most powerful Death Eaters in government. He killed Dumbledore. I was convinced he would be rough and brutish about the business. I needn't have worried on that account. In fact, Draco seemed almost embarrassed. Not that he would be so obvious about it, of course, but I noticed his hands shaking as he unfastened his trousers, and he kept clearing his throat. Pansy didn't stay to watch like some of the wives do. She kissed Draco on the cheek, told him to be quick about it, and then left, closing the door behind her.

I must have looked petrified, because before we got to it, Draco offered me a bit of firewhisky. I accepted, having never had it before in my life. I figured if ever there was a time to have some, it was then. It burned going down my throat and I coughed a little. Draco smiled and poured some more. He drank as well. The firewhisky made my skin feel hot, and beads of sweat started pooling on my lower back. I took off my robe without a thought, then blushed when I caught Draco staring at my bare stomach. I curled my arms around myself, not sure if I should have been so forward. Draco cleared his throat, downed the last of his firewhisky, then spoke.

"Are you sure you don't mind this?" His voice was husky from the drink. I was taken aback by his question, but answered honestly, trying not to sound too mouselike.

"I don't exactly have a choice, do I, Master Malfoy?" I paused, and he stared at the floor without saying a word. "I mean, it's this or the Lestranges. And, begging your pardon, Master, but I'd rather do anything than return back there. That is, I'm happy to provide any assistance to your family that I can. I'm proud to serve the Malfoy family, Master." I was rambling, the firewhisky stinging my mouth with each word.

Draco set down his empty glass, then put his hands on my shoulders. "Alright, Witch Abbott. I understand." His hands dropped to his side and he sighed, staring past me and into the fire. "Well, I suppose we had best get started, then."

My stomach clenched and I reached out, grabbing his arm. I needed more time. I needed to distract him, say anything, for just another moment. "Master Malfoy, this child. It will be considered a pureblood, isn't that correct? Even though I am only half-blood. I just want to make sure I understand."

Draco nodded. "We do not recognize three-fourths blood, not yet. If the child is more than half pure, we must consider him pure. Until the population of pureblood witches and wizards increases, we must turn a blind eye to such things." He stopped for a moment and regarded me. Another sigh, then "Go lie down on the bed, Witch Abbott. And take off your pants. Please."

I did what he asked, sweat sheening my body. I took off my bra as well, for good measure. I wanted to get this over with, and anything I could do to help matters along, I would do. I had never done this before, never been with a man, but I knew enough about how things worked, had heard my friends at school describe their sexual encounters in silly, sordid detail. I wasn't afraid of Draco anymore; the firewhisky had melted away those fears. I wasn't afraid of the sex. I was afraid of no longer being the same girl, the same innocent person I was before. I'd clung to that; my identity got me through the war and the aftermath of it. I clung to the fact that, despite everything, the terrors we'd faced hadn't changed me. I was afraid to be different now.

There was nothing for it. This had to be done. I summoned my strength. _Look for the silver lining, Hannah,_ I told myself.

Draco was handsome enough. He seemed far more decent than I had anticipated. He didn't seem like the kind of man who would put bruises on Hermione. Maybe that was always Pansy, then. Silver lining, silver lining.

Draco found the silver lining for me. His clothes completely removed, Draco gently grabbed my hips and pulled me toward the edge of the bed. The skin touched by his fingers tingled; goosepimples broke out on my skin and I felt my nipples grow hard. My breath caught. His slate grey eyes lingered over my body and his fingers followed, taking in my nakedness. I returned the favor; glancing over his pale, naked body, his lean muscles and smattering of blond, almost golden, pubic hair. He remained half-erect, so I sat up, then kneeled before him on the bed. He watched me without saying a word. I felt emboldened by the firewhisky and adrenaline and held his gaze with mine as I took him into my mouth. I could feel him stiffen as he let out a soft moan, his hands gripping my shoulders.

A few minutes later, he told me to stop. I stopped, waiting for him to tell me what to do next. He instructed me to kneel on my hands and knees, facing away from him, so I did. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but he ran his hand up the inside of my thigh, carefully pushing my legs farther apart. When he finally touched me, I gasped, and immediately felt warmth and wetness between my legs. He worked me for a few minutes with his fingers before running his member around one particular spot of pleasure. I felt a need I had never felt so intensely and couldn't help but pushing back against him. Finally, he entered me and I moaned, aching to feel him deeper inside of me.

Is this too sordid for you, diary? I'll wrap it up, then. When he was done, he told me to carefully roll over and lie on my back for a while. I had not orgasmed, though it had felt wonderful. Draco was cordial, almost robotic, as he dressed and left the room. We repeated this ritual – firewhisky, sex, politeness – for two more nights before Pansy insisted we increase our "sessions" to two times a day. I did not complain, though our lovemaking seldom varied. I always stimulated him with my mouth or hands first, he always took me from behind, and we never kissed. On the fourth night, I had my first orgasm as Draco simultaneously rolled one of my nipples between his fingers and stimulated that pleasure spot with his other hand, all while entering me over and over. I cannot even begin to describe the sensation, so I won't even try. I'm not sure which time resulted in the pregnancy, but I missed my cycle that month so we knew it had taken. Draco didn't visit me for sex again after that, and I found myself masturbating more frequently than I had done since my school years. 

FILTH:

Things certainly took a turn toward the absurd today. We – that is, Percy, Luna, and I – all discussed Percy's orientation. It did not go well, but I learned some interesting things about my masters. Let me explain.

Yesterday, I was cleaning the study when Luna joined me. She's rather large now; with only two and half months left of her pregnancy, give or take, and this being her third child, she's already quite round. Her movements are slow, but her demeanor is as charming and as friendly as ever. As I dusted, she sat and began talking to me. Of course, she's always overly familiar with me. Only Percy maintains the proper distance between us as master and servant. The more distant he is, the friendlier Luna becomes, it seems. I'm not sure which is better, if I'm being honest. I appreciate the effort on my mistress's part to make things easier for me, but frankly, her friendliness only seems to make a mockery of our present situation. At least with Percy, I know where things stand.

Anyhow, Luna confessed that she was beginning to grow suspicious of Percy's reluctance to show her any physical affection. She wondered if I had any ideas on the subject. I weighed my options: I could tell her that I suspected Percy prefers men to women, or I could let things take their own course. After all, it really is not my place to divulge his secret – if indeed I am correct – especially not without proof. Perhaps the smart thing would have been to keep my mouth shut on the matter, but of course, I did not. I suppose I felt I was sparing Luna's feelings by telling her what I believed to be the truth, that the longer things went on as they were, the more wounded she would feel by his neglect. Lack of physical affection aside, the two had become quite close friends. For the first year or so there was some awkwardness – their antithetical personalities seemed completely incompatible in every respect – but as Luna tends to do, Percy's wife won him over in the end, the dear. I believe she has become a great source of comfort for him. In any case, I felt she deserved to know.

She took it rather well, in fact. She said, "Oh, of course. I should have figured it out much sooner!" and got up and left. That was that, I thought. It was not that.

This morning, Luna sent for me to join her in the parlor. By the time I got there, Percy was already with her. They ceased their conversation, and a tense silence filled the room. Finally, Luna broke the silence.

Addressing her husband, she got quite to the point: "Percy, are you a homosexual?" The poor man nearly spit out his coffee. He immediately flushed scarlet.

"I – what? I don't know – what can you mean?" He stammered, avoiding her eyes and mine.

Luna patted his knee affectionately. "It's fine if you are. Justin is gay as well, aren't you, Justin?" She turned to me, her moonlike eyes serene, absolutely unaffected by her husband's mortification. And now it was my turn to be mortified – how long had she known? How had she known? I couldn't find the words to reply. Luna went on. "I knew you were the first time we made love. My hands had no effect, and when I used my mouth, it only worked once you closed your eyes. I assumed you were picturing a man. It's quite fine," she added, misjudging my embarrassment as guilt. "I'm not offended or anything. I, myself, enjoy both men and women."

Percy and I pointedly avoided eye contact. The humiliation was palpable; I kicked myself for saying anything to her. I wished she would stop talking, I wished she would let me leave, I wished she would just stop talking.

She did not. "Would you like it if we all made love together? We could do it for the next baby, or now, if you'd prefer. You two could make love, and I could watch. Or we could all do it together. Or I can leave, if you two would like to –"

Percy mercifully interrupted her. His face was a tomato with ginger hair. He had to set down his coffee to keep it from spilling onto the carpet; his hands were shaking so much. "Luna, my dear, that won't be necessary. I'm quite sure you are mistaken about our Justin, here. And in your condition – no, it will not do. Please, don't trouble yourself on this point." I could have kissed the man.

Luna smiled. "If you say so, my love. I don't mind though – if you change your mind later. I just want you to be happy, of course." She patted her belly, stood up with minimal fumbling around her protruding stomach, then left us to drown in awkwardness.

For a moment, Percy almost looked as though he were going to make an attempt at conversation, but then decided against it. "You may go, Justin," he said quietly. I watched him for a moment – the sadness, the loneliness in his eyes, the remnants of a blush on his neck and ears, the way he fidgeted with his spectacles as if they could hide him. I felt a stirring of affection for him that had not been there before. He seemed almost darling, just then. I turned and left before I got myself into any trouble.


End file.
